CHAPTER IV
The Reverend Dennis Masterman was a bachelor. He came to Shaugh full of physical energy and certain hazy resolutions to accomplish notable work among a neglected people. His scholastic career was nugatory, and his intellect had offered no bar to his profession. He was physically brave, morally infirm. Therefore his sister, Alice Masterman, came to support him and share his lot and complement his character. She might indeed fly from cows, but she would not fly from parochial opposition. She was strong where he was weak. They were young, sanguine, and of gentle birth. They enjoyed private means, but were filled with wholesome ardour to justify existence and leave the world better than they found it. Dennis Masterman possessed interest, and regarded this, his first cure, as a stepping-stone to better things.
Shaugh Prior was too small for his natural energies and powers of endurance—so he told his sister; but she said that the experience would be helpful. She also suspected that reform might not be a matter of energy alone.
One evening, a week after their arrival, they were planning the campaign and estimating the value of lay helpers, when two important visitors were announced. A maiden appeared and informed the clergyman that Thomas Gollop and Eliza Gollop desired to see him.
"Show them into the common room," said he; then he twisted a little bronze cross that he wore at his watchchain and regarded Miss Masterman.
"The parish clerk and his sister—I wonder if you'd mind, Alice?" he asked.
For answer she put down her work.
"Certainly. Since you saw Joe Voysey alone and, not only engaged him, but promised he might have a boy for the weeding, I feel—well, you are a great deal too easy, Dennis. Gollop is a very masterful person, clearly, and his sister, so I am told, is just the same. You certainly must not see women alone. They'll get everything they want out of you."
"Of course, one wishes to strike a genial note," he explained. "First impressions count for such a lot with common people."
"Be genial by all means; I say nothing against that."
"Let's tackle them, then. Gollop's a tremendous Conservative, but we must get Liberal ideas into him, if we can—in reason."
Dennis Masterman was tall, square-shouldered and clean-shaven. He regarded himself as somewhat advanced, but had no intention of sowing his opinions upon the parish before the soil was prepared. He considered his character to be large-minded, tolerant, and sane; and for a man of eight-and-twenty he enjoyed fair measure of these virtues.
His sister was plain, angular, and four years older than Dennis. She wore double eyeglasses and had a gruff voice and a perceptible beard.
The Gollops rose as the vicar and his sister appeared. Miss Gollop was shorter and stouter than her brother, but resembled him.
"Good evening, your reverence; good evening, miss," said the parish clerk. "This is my sister, Miss Eliza. For faith, hope, and charity she standeth. In fact, a leading light among us, though I say it as should not."
Mr. Masterman shook hands with the woman; his sister bowed only.
"And what does Miss Gollop do?" asked Dennis.
"'Twould be easier to say what she don't do," answered Thomas. "She's butt-woman to begin with, or as you would call it, 'pew-opener.' Then she's sick-nurse to the parish, and she's midwife, and, when free, she'll do chores or cook for them as want her. And she's got a knowledge and understanding of the people round these parts as won't be beaten. She was Mr. Valletort's right hand, wasn't you, Eliza?"
"So he said," answered Miss Gollop. She was not self-conscious, but bore herself as Fame's familiar and one accustomed to admiration. She had estimated the force of the clergyman's character from his first sermon, and judged that her brother would be a match for him. Now she covertly regarded Miss Masterman, and perceived that here must lie any issue of battle that might arise.
"Do you abide along with your brother, miss, or be you just settling him into the vicarage?" she asked.
"I live with him."
Miss Gollop inclined her head.
"And I'm sure I hope, if I can serve you any way at any time, as you'll let me know."
"Thank you. Everybody can serve us: we want help from one and all," said Mr. Masterman.
"Ezacally so!" said Thomas. "And you must larn each man's value from those that know it—not by bitter experience. Likewise with the women. My sister can tell you, to threepence a day, what any female in this parish be good for; and as to the men, you'll do very well to come to me. I know 'em all—old and young—and their characters and their points—good and bad, crooked and odd. For we've got some originals among us, and I'm not going to deny it, haven't us, Eliza?"
"Every place have," she said.
"Might we sit down?" asked the man. "We'm of the bungy breed, as you see, and not so clever in our breathing as we could wish. But we'm here to go through the whole law and the prophets, so to speak, and we can do it better sitting."
"Please sit down," answered Dennis. Then he looked at his watch. "I can give you an hour," he said. "But I'm going to ride over to Bickleigh at nine o'clock, to see the vicar there."
"And a very nice gentleman you'll find him," declared Thomas. "Of course, Bickleigh be but a little matter beside Shaugh Prior. We bulk a good deal larger in the eyes of the nation, and can hold our heads so much the higher in consequence; but the Reverend Coaker is a very good, humble-minded man, and knows his place in a way that's a high example to the younger clergymen."
Miss Masterman cleared her throat, but her voice was none the less gruff.
"Perhaps you will now tell us what you have come for. We are busy people," she said.
Her brother deprecated this brevity and tried to tone it down, but Thomas accepted the lady's statement with great urbanity.
"Miss be right," he answered. "Busy as bees, I warrant—same as me and my own sister here. She don't wear out many chairs, do you, Eliza?"
"Not many," said Miss Gollop. "I always say, 'Let's run about in this world; plenty of time to sit down in the next.'"
"I may tell you," added Thomas kindly, "that your first sermon went down very suent. From where I sits, along by the font, I can get a good look across the faces, and the important people, the Baskervilles and the Lillicraps and the Luscombes and the Mumfords—one and all listened to every word, and nodded now and again. You'll be glad to know that."
"Some thought 'twas a sermon they'd heard afore, however," said Miss Gollop; "but no doubt they was wrong."
"Quite wrong," declared Dennis warmly. "It was a sermon written only the night before I preached it. And talking of the font——"
"Yes, of course, you've marked the famous font-cover over the holy basin, I suppose?" interrupted Mr. Gollop. "'Tis the joy and pride of the church-town, I assure you. Not another like it in the world, they say. Learned men come all across England to see it—as well they may."
The famous font-cover, with its eight little snub-nosed saints and the Abbot elevated in the midst, was a special glory of St. Edward's.
"I meant to speak of that," said the clergyman. "The figure at the top has got more than his proper vestments on, Gollop. In fact, he's wrapped up in cobwebs. That is not worthy of us. Please see they are cleaned off."
"I hadn't noticed them; but since you say so—I'll look to it myself. Where the vamp-dish be concerned I allow none to meddle. It shall be done; but I must say again that I haven't noticed any cobwebs—not last Sunday. Have you, Eliza?" said Thomas.
"No, I have not," answered his sister.
"The dirt has clearly been there for months," remarked Miss Masterman.
There was a painful pause, during which Miss Gollop gazed at the vicar's sister and then at the vicar.
"'Tis a well-known fact that spiders will spin," she said vaguely, but not without intention. The other woman ignored her and turned to Thomas.
"Will you be so good as to proceed?"
"Yes, and gladly, miss," he answered. "And I'll begin with the Gollops, since they've done as much for this parish as anybody, living or dead. My father was parish clerk afore me, and a very remarkable man, wasn't he, Eliza?"
"He was."
"A remarkable man with a large faith in the power of prayer, was father. You don't see such faith now, worse luck. But he believed more than even I hold to, or my sister, either. You might say that he wasn't right always; but none ever dared to doubt the high religious quality of the man. But there he was—a pillar of the Church and State, as they say. He used to help his money a bit by the power of prayer; and they fetched childer sick of the thrush to him; and he'd tak 'em up the church tower and hold 'em over the battlements, north, south, east, and west—while he said the Lord's Prayer four times. He'd get a shilling by it every time, and was known to do twenty of 'em in a good year, though I never heard 'twas a very quick cure. But faith moves mountains, and he may have done more good than appeared to human eyes. And then in his age, he very near let a heavy babby drop over into the churchyard—just grabbed hold of un by a miracle and saved un. So that proper terrified the old man, and he never done another for fear of some lasting misfortune. Not but what a few devilish-natured people said that if 'twas knowed he let the childer fall now and again, he'd brisk up his business a hundred per centum. Which shows the evil-mindedness of human nature."
"I'll have no gross superstition of that sort here," said Mr. Masterman firmly.
"No more won't I," answered Thomas. "'Other times, other manners,' as the saying is. Have no fear. The church is very safe with me and Eliza for watch-dogs. Well, so much for my father. There was only us two, and we never married—too busy for that. And we've done no little for Shaugh Prior, as will be better told you in good time by other mouths than ours."
He stopped to take breath, and Miss Masterman spoke.
"My brother will tell you that with regard to parish clerks the times are altering too," she said.
"And don't I know it?" he answered. "Why, good powers, you can't get a clerk for love or money nowadays! They'm regular dying out. 'He'll be thankful he've got one of the good old sort,' I said to my sister. 'For he'd have had to look beyond Dartymoor for such another as me.' And so he would."
"That's true," declared Miss Gollop.
"I mean that the congregation takes the place of the clerk in most modern services," continued Miss Masterman. "In point of fact, we shall not want exactly what you understand by a 'clerk.' 'Other times, other manners,' as you very wisely remarked just now."
Mr. Gollop stared.
"Not want a clerk!" he said. "Woman alive, you must be daft!"
"I believe not," answered Miss Masterman. "However, what my brother has got to say regarding his intentions can come later. For the present he will hear you."
"If you don't want a clerk, I've done," answered Mr. Gollop blankly. "But I'll make bold to think you can't ezacally mean that. Us'll leave it, and I'll tell my tale about the people. The Lillicraps be a harmless folk, and humble and fertile as coneys. You'll have no trouble along with them. The Baskervilles be valuable and powerful; and Mr. Humphrey and his son is Church, and Mr. Vivian and his family is Church also, and his darters sing in the choir."
"We shall manage without women in the choir," said Miss Masterman.
"You may think so, but I doubt it," answered Eliza Gollop almost fiercely. "You'll have to manage without anybody in the church also, if you be for up-turning the whole order of divine service!" She was excited, and her large bosom heaved.
"Not up-turning—not up-turning," declared the clergyman. "Call it reorganisation. Frankly, I propose a surpliced choir. I have the bishop's permission; he wishes it. Now, go on."
"Then the Lord help you," said Thomas. "We'd better be going, Eliza. We've heard almost enough for one evening."
"Be reasonable," urged Miss Masterman with admirable self-command. "We are here to do our duty. We hope and expect to be helped by all sensible people—not hindered. Let Mr. Gollop tell us what he came to tell us."
"Well—as to reason—I ask no more, but where is it?" murmured Thomas. "'Twas the Baskervilles," he continued, wiping his forehead. "The other of 'em—Nathan—be unfortunately a chapel member; and if you be going to play these here May games in the House of the Lord, I'm very much afeared he'll draw a good few after him. They won't stand it—mark me."
"Where do the people at Undershaugh worship? I did not see Mrs. Lintern and her family last Sunday."
"They'm all chapel too."
Mr. Masterman nodded.
"Thank you for these various facts. Is there anything more?"
"I've only just begun. But I comed with warnings chiefly. There be six Radicals in this parish, and only six."
"Though the Lord knows how many there will be when they hear about the choir," said Eliza Gollop.
"I'm an old-fashioned Liberal myself," declared the vicar. "But I hope your Radicals are sound churchmen, whatever else they may be."
"Humphrey Baskerville is—and so's his son."
"Is that young Mark Baskerville?"
"Yes—tenor bell among the ringers. A very uneven-minded man. He's a wonderful ringer and wrapped up in tenor bell, as if 'twas a heathen idol. In fact, he'm not the good Christian he might be, and he'll ring oftener than he'll pray. Then Saul Luscombe to Trowlesworthy Warren—farmer and rabbit-catcher—be a very hard nut, and so's his man, Jack Head. You won't get either of them inside the church. They say in their wicked way they ain't got no need for sleeping after breakfast of a Sunday—atheists, in fact. The other labouring man from Trowlesworthy is a good Christian, however. He can read, but 'tis doubtful whether he can write."
"You'll have to go to keep your appointment, Dennis," remarked his sister.
"Plenty of time. Is there anything more that's particularly important, Gollop?"
"Lots more. Still, if I'm to be shouted down every minute—— I comed to encourage and fortify you. I comed to tell you to have no fear, because me and sister was on your side, and always ready to fight to the death for righteousness. But you've took the wind out of our sails, in a manner of speaking. If you ban't going to walk in the old paths, I'm terrible afraid you'll find us against you."
"This is impertinence," said Miss Masterman.
"Not at all," answered the clerk's sister. "It's sense. 'Tis a free country, and if you'm going to set a lot of God-fearing, right-minded, sensible people by the ears, the sin be on your shoulders. You'd best to come home, Thomas."
Mr. Masterman looked helplessly at his watch.
"We shall soon arrive at—at—a modus vivendi," he said.
"I don't know what that may be, your reverence," she answered; "but if 'tis an empty church, and sour looks, and trouble behind every hedge, then you certainly will arrive at it—and even sooner than you think for."
"He's going to give ear to the Radicals—'tis too clear," moaned Thomas, as he rose and picked up his hat.
"I can only trust that you two good people do not represent the parish," continued the vicar.
"You'll terrible soon find as we do," said Miss Gollop.
"So much the worse. However, it is well that we understand one another. Next Sunday I shall invite my leading parishioners to meet me in the schoolroom on the following evening. I shall then state my intentions, and listen to the opinions and objections of every man among you."
"And only the men will be invited to the meeting," added Miss Masterman.
"'Tis a parlous come-along-of-it," moaned the parish clerk. "I meant well. You can bear me out, Eliza, that I meant well—never man meant better."
"Good evening," said Miss Masterman, and left them.
"Be sure that we shall soon settle down," prophesied the vicar. "I know you mean well, Gollop; and I mean well, too. Where sensible people are concerned, friction is reduced to a minimum. We shall very soon understand one another and respect one another's opinions."
"If you respect people's opinions, you abide by 'em," declared Miss Gollop.
"Us shan't be able to keep the cart on the wheels—not with a night-gowned choir," foretold her brother.
Then Dennis saw them to the door; they took their leave, and as they went down the vicarage drive, their voices bumbled together, like two slow, shard-borne beetles droning on the night.